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Look. Here's the thing.
Breanna knows there's nothing there. She really does.
It's just Sophie's whole Thing, right? She gets all glamorous and coiffed and flutters her eyelashes and the men stop paying attention to anything else. That's the grift. It works on everyone. If it didn't, Team Leverage wouldn't have much to go on.
Breanna's a bit embarrassed that it also works on her. Well, at least, it works for a second. And then it just floods her with all those gross confusing thoughts from when she was first coming out to herself all over again. Something something, queer women participating in the male gaze, butches replicating heterosexuality -- that fucking bs. She'd thought she was past it, but apparently there are some things that are hard to shake.
It’s just, when Sophie’s entire thing is meant to prey on weak-minded men, and Sophie’s thing also makes Breanna’s heart beat faster and a flush heat her cheeks -- well, it doesn’t feel great. Especially when Sophie tips her head and puts on that tone, you know the one. The one that’s like, I’m here to listen to your every word, except it’s really, I’m here to rip you to pieces. The men can never hear the second part, but Breanna does. She’s not totally sure which part of the voice is getting to her.
Her brain knows it's all fake, at least. But her everything else? It’s determined to cause problems.
(She doesn't get how Spencer and Parker seem so unafflicted by it. A decade or so of practice, she guesses. Or, like, appropriate work-life boundaries. She’s working on it.)
So, yeah. Breanna has mixed feelings, even before the whole "she's kindof my boss and she's approximately twice my age" thing.
It doesn't help that she also knows, on some level, that Sophie is probably bisexual. Breanna isn't sure what led her to this conclusion, exactly -- an offhanded comment with a certain word oddly emphasized, the weight of a look (not at Breanna, of course), the probably accidental implication that Sophie and Breanna share something that no one else in their group does, at least in that exact same way.
It’s --
Okay, like the time they were scoping out a mark.
Breanna’s doing her thing, clickity clackity, the guy’s digital security is shit. Sophie’s watching, kindof looming but in that polite, distant way of hers, the one that communicates she’s not really the mastermind, everything is in your hands, she’s just here to watch. Breanna is most definitely not thinking about Sophie’s perfume, the floral smell on the air as the grifter observes.
And they find some gross stuff on the guy’s computer. Nothing horrifying -- the usual. Pretty normal. Nothing that merits any more than a little eyeroll of irritation.
And that’s what Breanna gets. A sly smirk, a little eye-twinkle. Breanna can’t even remember what Sophie said, exactly -- she was too fixated on the little crack in Sophie’s facade, the hint of exhaustion or tiredness, the sense that she’s been doing this for so long and seen the same old shit so many times that it’s all started to look the same.
Something like, Ugh, businessmen, or Oh, at least he’s not original or maybe both of those or neither of them. Whatever. The words don’t matter.
The important bit: the sigh, after.
It’s not boys will be boys, us girls, we have to band together solidarity. Wrong tone. Don’t ask Breanna how she knows; you just get a feeling for this stuff.
It's just a gut instinct, you know? When you're the gayest-looking person in any given room at any given time, you start to notice all the ways that other people try to be seen by you, whether they realize it or not.
(What do you do when someone comes out to you, but they probably didn't mean to, and they maybe don't even realize they did? Do you just politely pretend not to know?)
So, Sophie is bisexual, or Breanna's wishful thinking has mistakenly intuited that she is. But even if Breanna's instincts are right, that doesn't mean that Sophie is interested, really, or likes women much, or is over whatever the hell happened with Nate, or would be interested in her, Breanna, specifically, or even wants Breanna to know that she’s bisexual.
So, it’s all pointless. Just this weird brain-anxiety loop that’s going nowhere. The only thing Breanna can do is pretend it’s not happening and hope that Sophie doesn’t notice her blushing.
Or, at least, that's what Breanna thinks.
Until that one job.
Sophie knows Breanna’s looking.
Sophie’s entire job is noticing when someone is looking, and knowing when to play the airhead and when to look back, and finding all the little strings to pluck in these silly simple men’s egos.
Breanna’s a hacker, not a grifter, anyway, as yet unschooled in hiding her emotions. She can make it through a con because she comes off as so naive and genuine that no one would think twice that there’s any guile under that fresh face of hers. She made it through The Card Game Job by doing the exact opposite of playing a role.
Which means that when it comes to these things, she’s obvious. So obvious. Of course Sophie knows Breanna’s looking.
But Sophie’s not about to embarrass the poor girl by pointing it out.
Sophie is a villain. But she has her lines. And one of them definitely seems like it should be “do not humiliate and/or give the young gay teammate any false hopes,” though she must say she’s never been in this exact situation before, drawing these particular lines. There is something a little flattering about catching the eye of someone who’s well on her way growing into a self-confident, handsome woman.
But she scolds herself, when she catches herself thinking that way. To start something with Breanna would be… well, it wouldn’t be an abuse of power, not really, but it would certainly be ill-advised. There she would be, the old sad widow, giving into selfish self-indulgence at the first sign of interest from a twenty-something paramour. What a cliche.
Alec would find ways to make Sophie’s digital life a living hell, if he ever caught wind, anyway.
And, again. The hideous cliche of it all. Which is why -- Breanna? Absolutely not.
This is all to say. Well.
It’s just important to understand that under normal circumstances, Sophie would have never. And she won’t.
But these aren’t normal circumstances. And when things go wrong, well -- something she’s learned about working with a crew is that the consequences aren’t just for you. Sometimes, something goes off in a totally unexpected direction, and you have to roll with it and trust that everyone else on your crew can handle themselves and, if they can’t, cushion their falls best you can.
The job is a disaster from the start.
Everything blows up. Breanna’s supposed to sneak in, rig the internal security so she can take camera control and cover for Parker, sneak out.
But a security guard catches her before she even gets the box open -- stupid, basic mistake. She knows better. He hauls her up by her hood, grunting something about trespassing. She’s scrabbling to stay planted on her tiptoes while berating herself mentally, when he drags her out of the hallway and presents her to the mark.
The mark, who Sophie’s working.
Breanna tries not to look at Sophie, she really does. There’s still a chance that they can pass this off as a weird break-in, unrelated to anyone or anything else weird and unfamiliar going on. But then the security guard gives her a good mean shake and there’s a touch of metal at her temple and her eyes shoot up and Sophie’s eyes lock on them and the fuck, get me out of this must be clear in her face because suddenly, the whole tone of everything changes.
Sophie’s spine straightens. Her languidness disappears. Her gaze is wicked, sharper than she ever lets show, even when she’s at ease at the base. (Maybe, Breanna thinks for a moment, Sophie’s never at ease, ever, even at the bar just between them -- but she doesn’t have time to follow the thought, because the security guard is shaking her.)
The guard has also called for help, at some point, and now six or so private security cram themselves into the hallway, forming a protective semi-circle around the mark, eyes pointed accusingly at Breanna. Breanna’s not thinking about every gun that’s ever been pointed at her. She’s not. She’s counting her breaths and thinking about anything else.
Sophie doesn’t say anything, for a moment. Just stares, like she’s ready to destroy everything.
The gun wavers against Breanna’s head. The mark’s chest stops rising, just for a moment. Everyone holds their breath, and everything freezes.
“I see you’ve met my…” Sophie’s voice lingers on the word. It’s a pregnant pause, loaded -- the kind of pause that makes you assume whatever’s coming next is a lie, or a carefully chosen obfuscation. The sort of pause Sophie never makes unthinkingly.
“Associate,” Sophie says finally, voice lingering on the word.
The blood is pounding in her ears. The gun scrapes against her temple, warm, like it’s been used not-so-long ago. This -- this direct confrontation, this physical violence, it’s Eliot’s game, not Breanna’s. She doesn’t fold under pressure, not exactly, but she also feels every bit of herself freezing up.
But it doesn’t matter. Because Sophie’s there, saving her.
Breanna can barely follow the tale that Sophie weaves, effortlessly respinning their cover stories into a new double-layered tale, one that implies an entire fake backstory and then another “real” backstory (also fake) to cover what they’re actually here to do.
And the more Sophie talks, and the more that little glint shimmers in her eye, the more the grip on Breanna wavers.
And eventually, it releases. Sophie has spun such a tale that she’s terrified these men into letting Breanna go.
Breanna takes a deep, steadying breath, quiet as she can, trying to get some oxygen back into her head. Then it’s one, two, three measured steps to stand beside Sophie. Tries to hide the trembling in her hands. Her pulse thrums quick in her throat, and she’s sure every one of them can see her fear. But she leans into the role: confident. In control. Protected.
Sophie doesn’t even look at her. Just keeps her eyes locked on the mark. Slides her arm into Breanna’s. Like she does Parker, like she does Harry, like she does any of them. Gives a curt nod to the mark. And turns them both to leave.
Breanna takes her hand, and she doesn’t let go.
No one stops them.
This is the thing: it’s benign. It’s so benign.
This isn’t a fake dating thing, or a “kissing in the hallway to avoid detection,” or a honeypot, or any of those tired old con jokes, for fuck’s sake. It’s just -- Sophie, threatening a lot of large powerful men on her behalf.
Sophie looks unflappable. Unshaken. Like this is nothing -- just another day.
Sophie doesn’t ask are you okay or stop and fuss or -- anything else. It’s all business, through and through.
Breanna reminds herself this is exactly how Sophie is with everyone. Just a show of trust. Value. Self-protection. It’s normal, this is part of the job, they just do this, Breanna knows this, but Sophie’s elbow is warm where it’s hooked over hers and her hand is gentle on Breanna’s wrist. The touch leads Breanna back out of the terrified floating place she’s gone.
Breanna can’t stop thinking about the warm gun to her head, the venom in Sophie’s tone. She thinks, as they sidle awkwardly through the rotating doors of the office building, that Sophie isn’t bothered. But something tightens in Sophie’s grip, when the glass cuts the noise between them and the mark, letting street noise trickle through. Breanna flips their hands, so that she’s grasping Sophie’s wrist instead.
Sophie’s pulse thrums under Breanna’s fingertips, but her face doesn’t crack.
When they’re back to safety, Breanna disappears into the attic, eyes bright and shining and stricken.
Sophie doesn’t follow. At first, she isn’t planning to.
She’s always shouldered the burden of mastermind, at the end of the day. When Nate was too mad, or too drunk, or too short-sighted to manage his crew -- it fell to her.
But then she thinks about Alec (who would judge her, deservedly) and about Nate (who wouldn’t even think twice about leaving Breanna alone) and about the careful way Alec and Parker talk to Breanna, like there’s something over her shoulder, listening in. And about the feel of Breanna’s soft hands in hers, gripping too-hard with fear.
Something tells Sophie it’s not the first time Breanna’s seen a gun that close. Something else tells Sophie that makes the situation worse, not better.
So she brews a cup of tea, mechanically, and lays out a tray, and she knocks.
“Come in.” Breanna’s voice is hesitant, subdued.
Sophie lets herself in anyway. “I brought tea.”
Breanna snorts, hunching in on herself. She’s found her way into cargo pants and a hoodie -- hiding clothes.
“Do you usually check in with the others,” she says, in that way that’s not a question, bitterness in her voice. It’s like Sophie can feel Breanna’s shoulders creeping up around her head, the hardness in her voice, the walls coming up around her
Sophie could say yes. It would keep this all on track, maintain the distance. But she’s not totally sure she can do that to Breanna.
“No,” she says, softly.
Breanna’s throat bobs, and Sophie can hear the slightest catch of it, like she swallowed dry.
“Right,” Breanna says, probably thinking something about how it must be because she’s the youngest, the newest, the weakest link, that she needs extra minding. Sophie should let her think that. “Well, no need.” She points at herself with her thumbs, a jaunty motion that doesn’t much match the watery look in her eyes. “All good, here. Thanks for the rescue.”
“You’re welcome,” Sophie says. She’s realizing that she can’t really ask, can’t really help, without unsettling Breanna more, making her doubt her place with the team, making her question Sophie’s respect for her.
So now Sophie’s just here, with a tray of tea and nothing to say.
She shouldn’t have come.
Breanna is watching, eyes sharp. Sophie has to offer her something. So she sits down on the faux-Victoriana loveseat, settling the tray carefully on the table before them. (Away from the computers, because, you know, she has worked with Alec for a decade.)
“You handled that well,” Sophie says.
Breanna snorts again.
“No!” Sophie stresses. “You did.”
“What, get caught? Blow your cover? Derail every single plan?”
It’s an accurate description, unfortunately. Sophie shrugs. “Well.”
“Don’t grift at me,” Breanna says. Her eyes are fixed on her hands.
“It wasn’t great,” Sophie tries, “but it was the best thing you could have done, under the circumstances. You may not feel like it -- but sometimes all you can do is just make sure things don’t get worse.”
“Right.”
And it’s so petulant, it startles a laugh from Sophie.
Breanna gives her a little grin.
“Really,” Sophie says, reaching out to tip Breanna’s chin up. “I’m impressed, given everything. You did well under pressure. A little experience, and we’ll have you grifting in no time.”
It’s not until Breanna follows Sophie’s cues, looks up, and meets Sophie’s gaze head on that she realizes she might have made a mistake.
There’s something else in Breanna’s eyes, now, a bit of mischief. Their thighs are close; Sophie can feel Breanna’s breath on her face.
Sophie drops her hand, tries to transition the conversation naturally. “I’ll let you be. But you should be proud of yourself, today.”
She starts to stand, brushing off her skirt, and for a moment, she thinks she’s going to escape gracefully.
Then Breanna says, “Hang on.” Sophie halts. “That was a vibe.” There’s pure delight in her voice.
It’s Sophie’s turn to look away, grateful that Breanna won’t have a clear look at her face from where she’s sitting.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” It’s not a lie, exactly. Sophie’s not sure.
“Alright,” Breanna says, “well, in that case, we can pretend that wasn’t a vibe. But if you ever want to make out sometime--”
And here she’s thought she’s been sparing Breanna. But Sophie realizes instantaneously, devastatingly, that it’s the other way around.
“Oo, no.” Sophie is shaking her head before Breanna can even finish the thought, hoping her cheeks don’t look as warm as they feel. Sophie’s been startled into blushing. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” she says.
Breanna’s eyes look bright. She’s smart. She might not be so people-smart, instinctively grifter-smart, but she’s other sorts of smart. She can probably hear all the things Sophie could have said, but hasn’t: the I don’t want to, or the That would be inappropriate, or, closer to truth, I can’t stop thinking about Nate when I’m alone, or, her least favorite, especially when it was directed towards her in her own time, the You’re too young.
The trick to grifting, of course, is that at the heart of it, there’s always a little bit of truth.
And all of that? Lies. So Sophie doesn’t try to say any of it. She’s not sure she could sell it.
Breanna raises her eyebrows, like she’s waiting for more. Sophie’s mouth is dry.
“Alright,” Breanna says, slow and thoughtful. “Thanks for the tea.”
Breanna’s eyes aren’t disappointed or resigned. They’re something else.
Something in Sophie thrums -- that old thrill of mischief, the spark of her that can’t help but rise to an unspoken challenge.
It wants to answer.
Oh, this is going to be a problem.
“You’re welcome,” Sophie says, as if nothing’s amiss and her heart isn’t beating faster. And she leaves.